


The Ballad of a Broken Man

by Trophy_Kill1991



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, M/M, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Pre-Tresspasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trophy_Kill1991/pseuds/Trophy_Kill1991
Summary: The letter had come by raven.Addressed to him, and written in a familiar script. Neat and flowing, almost unnecessarily embellished with loops and flourishes in a way that no one other than Varric could pull off. Before he’d broken the wax seal bearing the inquisition’s sigil, Fenris had assumed that this letter was his call to arms. He fully expected his friend to have written a blatantly sarcastic, though still somewhat heartfelt, plea for Fenris to venture to Skyhold, to help fight against the demons and Maker only knew what else that were falling from the sky all across Thedas. And if it meant that he once again got to fight at Hawke’s side, Fenris was more than ready to leave.But he was wrong... Oh so very wrong. And how he wished that he hadn’t been.





	1. Dear Agony

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my very first attempt at a Dragon Age fic... Lets hope I don't screw it up too badly!  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!  
> And twenty points to whoever can tell me where the lyrics at the beginning of each chapter comes from!  
> Enjoy!

 

_“A long time ago we believed that we were united,_

_So the last thing on earth I am ready to do is say_

_Good-Bye.”_

 

The letter had come by courier. 

The envelope was plain enough, unassuming from the outside. It bore nothing but his name and a familiar wax seal on the back. Fenris knew that seal well enough from their years together. Back when Hawke had been a nobody, back before he’d become the _Champion of Kirkwall_. Fenris knew Hawke’s handwriting anywhere, too. It hadn’t changed one bit; still the same messy scrawl that somehow looked artful and purposeful. 

The words written inside had not initially caused Fenris any reason to panic. Hawke did this from time to time, this heading out on one mission immediately after another, without coming home first. It wasn’t too often that the pair of them got much time together these days. Their paths had grown further and further apart over the years, though their love for one another had not waned. That much had always been evident in the words they wrote to one another in their time apart. But this letter felt different… Ominous almost. And the more he read it, the worse it felt.

Hawke wrote that he’d been contacted by Varric - who was now working with the Inquisition - and had been asked to head to Skyhold to aid the group. From what Fenris could gather, it was all mage-hands on deck, and Hawke was nothing of not a brilliant mage. He didn’t give any specifics, mostly because Hawke didn’t quite know the extent of what he was being asked to do, but he promised he’d be back within a month. Two, at the most. The journey to Skyhold would be the longest part of it, Hawke had said. 

But still, there seemed to be a different, almost nervous quality in his words. Fenris could sense the slight tonal shift, saw the way the characters were tighter and more stiff than normal. But regardless of the tiny surge of worry that filled him, Fernis did as Hawke had asked and waited for him to return. And he waited.

And he waited. 

The second letter had come by raven. 

Addressed to him, and written in a different, though equally as familiar script. Neat and flowing, almost unnecessarily embellished with loops and flourishes in a way that no one other than Varric could pull off. Fenris hadn’t heard from his old friend in quite some time, Seeker Penterghast had not often allowed the dwarf parchment and pen to write. But now, with the Inquisition trying to mop up the mess that Anders had created, it only made sense that they ask the apostate’s one-time friend to join in to help. 

Before he’d broken the wax seal bearing the inquisition’s sigil, Fenris had assumed that this letter was _his_ call to arms. He fully expected his friend to have written a blatantly sarcastic, though still somewhat heartfelt, plea for Fenris to venture to Skyhold, to help fight against the demons and Maker only knew what else that were falling from the sky all across Thedas. And if it meant that he once again got to fight at Hawke’s side, Fenris was more than ready to leave. 

But he was wrong. Oh so very wrong. And how he wished that he hadn’t been. 

Instead of the cry for help he’d been looking for, Fenris read words of deep regret, and impossible sorrow. He read heartfelt condolences and an apology that Varric knew would change nothing.

According to Varric’s letter - Which Fenris had read twice, just to be absolutely sure he understood - Hawke had accompanied the Inquisitor, her companions, and a Grey Warden named Alistair on an incredibly important mission. An incredibly dangerous mission, too. Varric had gone on to explain that the group had been thrown into the fade, forced to fight abominations and demons the likes of which he’d never seen before. 

They’d all been about to escape with their lives, when their path had become blocked by a larger demon. It had been obvious, Varric said, that there was no way they’d all make it out alive, and both Warden Alistair and Hawke had offered to stay behind. When it had become clear that Corypheous was behind the death of Divine, and was the cause of the turmoil around the world, Hawke felt responsible - He’d killed the Old God before, or so he’d thought. And now that Corypheous had risen again, Hawke felt that it should fall to his hands to end him once again. The Warden argued that the blights and darkspawn were their problem, and he should be the one to stay behind. 

The choice had fallen then to Inquisitor Lavellan. 

Varric told him that he’d begged Lavellan to bring Hawke back, and let the Warden deal with it, but she’d chosen instead to leave him behind. Varric had tried to cover up the choice of his new friend, telling Fenris that it was _Hawke’s_ choice, a selfless and heroic choice of self-sacrifice to save his friends and stay behind. 

But Fernis had not believed that was the case. Not at all. 

But there was proof, _physical proof_ that it had indeed been Hawke. His Hawke. Varric had sent along the blood-red sash that had been Hawke’s trademark. There was no mistaking it; the colour of the fabric too bright, too distinct a colour. A colour that everyone had always associated with The Champion. Hawke’s colour. And it was as he ran his hands over that familiar piece of fabric, Fenris knew that everything he’d read was true… Hawke was gone.

The wail of anguish that left Fenris once the letter had sunk in was surely heard echoing throughout Thedas. He’d fallen to his knees, cursing The Maker and Andraste in a string of oaths in every tongue he knew for taking Hawke from him like this. Sobs of sorrow and anger were muffled as he brought the sash to his face, burying it within the red fabric. 

Hawke had promised he’d return. He promised. And Hawke had always been a man of his word. Except in this… This most important promise. Hawke had died so that the others could survive, and end what Corypheous had started. Hawke had sacrificed himself for a person he’d hardly known. Hawke had left him. Hawke was dead, and Fenris was one again left entirely alone in the world. 

Fenris could still pick up the faint hint of Hawke’s scent lingering on the cloth as he held it to his nose. He was gone, and there was no denying it, no matter how much he wanted to. There was no waking up from the nightmare now, no matter how much he wished to. Fenris knew that his eyes would not snap open, and he would not find himself safe and warm in Hawke’s bedchamber. He knew that he’d not come to, and feel the strong arms of his mage lover around him. He’d not feel the way the lyrium burned into his skin would react to Hawke’s magic, tingling and burning almost painfully.

Oh, how he’d hated that sensation. 

Now, however, Fenris would have given everything he had to feel it again. He’d do anything… But there was nothing that could be done. Hawke was dead; left in the fade. His choice or not, Hawke had been left behind like some useless piece of garbage, by a person who clearly had no idea what an asset Hawke could have been to them.

Slowly, despair gave way to anger. And then, anger turned to vengeance. If The Inquisitor didn’t realize what a huge mistake she’d made, than Fenris would _make her understand_. And several weeks after that heart wrenching letter had arrived, Fenris packed up his few meagre belongings, tied Hawke’s sash around his own waist, and left the little house in the Kokari Wilds that he and Hawke had been calling home for the past several years.

As Hawke had told him, Skyhold was quite a ways away, and the trek there took him weeks. Not that it was difficult to find the place, with all the refugees and potential recruits flocking to the mountain fortress like moths to a flame. Many people ventured there seeking asylum from the Mage-Templar war that Anders had begun when he’d blown up the Kirkwall Chantry. Others went to find shelter from the demon attacks and fade rifts that had been opening across Thedas. 

It was once such group of refugees that Fenris found himself traveling with. He’d intended to go it alone, as he’d done for years after he’d escaped his old Tevinter master. And it was as he trekked through The Hinterlands that he’d come across them; a group of mostly women and children - Elves, all of them - being attacked by a rage demon. Alienage elves, he deemed, by their clothing. No weapons of their own, none of them even holding a mage staff. And Fenris couldn’t let them suffer. 

He’d taken down the demon and held off another to allow the small group to escape. Once the final creature fell, the group’s leader - an elderly elven woman - insisted that he join them. They could offer him a share in their food supplies, and in return, he could defend them agains the monsters that roamed the lands. So he’d become their protector, traveling alongside them in almost total silence, keeping his distance as best he could. 

From what he could tell, they all believed in what the Inquisition stood for, and that the Inquisitor herself was an excellent leader. She was good and just, and would certainly find a place for them all within the Inquisition. She had to. She was elven, just like them.

Elyessia Levellan was her name. An elven mage who had just so happened to be at the conclave when the blast had occurred. They said that she had walked out of the breach, a glowing mark on her hand, and the uncanny ability to seal off the rifts between the fade and the material world. Lavellan was smart and wise, they said. She passed fair judgements, and her sentences were never unnecessarily harsh or cruel. They said that Levellan was wiling to do things that needed to be done, and that no one else would do. 

The elves he traveled with seemed to look up to The Inquisitor like she was some sort of Messiah. And it hadn’t been just them, either. Many people he heard in passing believed her to be Andraste’s chosen. The Herald, they were calling her… Whatever that meant. But all Fenris knew about her, was that it was her decision that had left Hawke dead. 

And for that, she would pay. 

A cold mountain wind blew the silvery-blond hair from Fenris’ green eyes, made the black cloak around his shoulders flutter. His hands itched to heft his blade, to storm across the valley below and tear Skyhold down all on his own. But he made no move to go, instead, just glared a deadly glare out across the valley as he stood at the precipice of a cliff, mind plagued with dark thoughts. 

 _Burn it all,_ said a voice in his head. _Make them pay for what has been done._

Not all inside the keep were guilty, Fenris reminded himself. Hawke’s blood was not on the hands of every man, woman and child living behind those high stone walls. Even Varric was not to blame for the ache Fenris felt in his heart day after day. He had just been there, doing his best to talk his old friend out of what was surely to be suicide. No, Fenris’ wrath was not directed at all who dwelled there… Just Lavellan. 

“Is everything alright, Da’len?” Asked a voice from behind. Fenris turned to face the speaker. She was an older elven woman, her white hair tied back in a bun, though several strands still fell into her face in an almost girlish way. Deep brown eyes were still vibrant and youthful, though her skin was etched with deep lines of worry between her neat brows and at the corners of her mouth. 

She acted as the groups Keeper, though so far as Fenris knew, Alienage’s never truly had such things. But despite his own sorrows, Fenris found himself growing quite fond of her. She was kind and compassionate, always willing to lend an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on for her people. She was smart, knew things about the path they walked. It was clear from the tattoos on her skin that she had not always been a city elf, but from her mannerisms, it seemed she had lived among the humans for quite some time. 

When Fenris did not answer her right off, The Keeper took another step into the clearing, a gentle smile on her lips. Attentive eyes met Fenris’ own, and her head tipped to the side ever so slightly, like a curious little bird. “You seem lost in thought,”

“Ir atish’an, Hahren,” Fenris replied, his own voice sounding foreign in his ears. It was rare he spoke these days, his voice often betraying his own feelings as it did now. There was sorrow and despair etched into his every word, and he knew that the ache in his heart was written all across his face, as plain to see as the lyrium tattoos branding his flesh. 

The Keeper rose a brow, and smiled. “I’d no idea you spoke the language of the people,” She said, sounding both shocked and grateful at once. 

“Some,” Fenris replied. “But not very much. I traveled many years with one of the Dalish. She taught me enough to get by, should I have to.” The keeper nodded slowly, though it was clear that she waited for a true answer to her question.

Until now, Fenris had been able to avoid telling his traveling companions anything of himself, and his he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to speak about it at all. There wasn’t much distance between themselves and Skyhold now; a days travel if the weather was good, as far as he could tell. And so long as he could help it, Fenris could keep his pain to himself. He could avoid talking about how much he missed Hawke, and how he longed to hear that bright and reckless laughter of his again. How he ached to murmur soft words of love in Hawke’s ear, and tell him it was a Qun insult when Hawke asked what he’d said.

Fenris gave a little sigh, and a small, forced smile. “I am just glad that we’ve finally made it.” He said to the woman, looking over his shoulder once again at the fortress beyond.       

The woman gave him a knowing look, and made a soft sound in the back of her throat that quickly gave way to a chuckle. “Ma harel, Da’len.” She said. “Come, sit with me a while.” She waved an aging hand towards the cliff’s edge, further away from the little camp their group had erected. 

Despite himself, Fenris followed. He sat across from her in the grass, eyeing her as she gazed out across the valley and into the setting sun. Her eyes moved from the sun, down to the forrest below, and across the path they would travel come morning, and then to Skyhold beyond. Colours painted the sky behind the fortress in a thousand colours, turning the blank stone bright.

“I have walked this earth much longer than you now, Da’len. I’ve spoken with thousands of people - elvhen and shemlen alike. So I believe that in my years, I’ve learned to read people quite well.” Her gaze turned to him once again, curiosity still burning bright in her deep eyes. “And I can see that you are anything but fine. Tell me, what is it that burdens you so?” 

Fenris looked away from her, scowling to himself as strands of silvery hair fell into his face, obscuring it from view. He breathed a slow sigh, closing his eyes as he turned his face towards the setting sun. “What do you care?” Fenris asked, perhaps more harshly than he had intended to. 

This woman didn’t know anything of him, other than his name. The rest she’d likely heard had been tales of his past adventures with Hawke and their friends. And knowing the tales Varric had once told - _loudly_ \- at The Hanged Man, those stories were more than likely heavily, _heavily_ , embellished. She didn’t know his true past. She didn’t know the hell Denarius put him though, the pain he’d suffered at his former masters hand. She had no idea how much blood stained his hands and heart. She had not seen the way that Hawke had loved him, in spite of all that blood and darkness. She didn’t know how brightly his own heart had burned for his fallen Champion, and still did, for that matter. What did it matter to this woman if he was upset? He certainly had every reason to be. 

“You have walked beside me and my adopted Clan for weeks now. You have protected us from wild beasts, rogue templars and apostates alike,” The Keeper said, her voice gentle and soft, almost comforting. “I have seen you struggle, heard you cry out in your sleep. I have seen your eyes stained with the dark rings of tears unshed, and feelings left unfelt. I can see that you bear a burden heavier than even you can bear, and I’ve watched it push you further and further down every day.” Fenris could feel her eyes on him, though he did not turn to face her. “I care, because you are one of my own now, Da’len. So tell me… What is it that troubles you so?” 

Fenris felt a delicate hand place itself on his forearm, beyond the places where his armour covered. He could feel warmth radiate off her skin, feel the way she wanted him to trust her, as she had grown to trust in him. Her hand was oddly rough, as though she’d spent many years wilding a weapon of some kind. He could tell that the callous was old, and that violence had not been seen by those hands in quite some time. But unlike the last hands to touch him, these did not make his lyrium scars flare and burn. These hands were purely comforting - warm and kind, and as gentle as the woman to whom they belonged. 

Eyes of vibrant emerald green turned then to those of deep brown, and searched long and hard for some sign of dishonesty within them, only to find that it was not there. _Perhaps,_ thought Fenris, _She truly is just a kindly old Keeper, tending to her flock._ He turned from her again, to look towards where the camp lay, far enough way that he could not hear their voices carrying on the breeze. _And as ever, I am the Black Sheep._

His gaze lowered then to where his own hands lay, folded in his lap, and swallowed around the heavy lump that had formed in his throat. “I bear a heavy heart, Hahren,” Fenris began, his voice softer and much more somber than usual. “Something has been taken from me. Something which I’ll never get back, nor will I ever replace.” 

A gloved hand reached absently to the red sash about his waist, fingers entwining themselves in the ends of the cloth. “A fr-“ He stopped himself mid word, and closed his eyes. The term _Friend_ was not suitable for what Hawke had been to him. No, Hawke was far more than that. Hawke had been his everything. “Ma’arlath… He was killed. They tell me it was a noble death; killed in the line of duty, a self-sacrifice to save the lives of others. But I do not believe it.” His eyes opened then, gazing down at the ends of the sash in his hand. “He made me a promise. A promise that he would return to me, as he always has. And he has never, in all the years the I have known him, broken a promise… Especially not one he made to me.” Fenris’ vision blurred as tears he would not - could not - shed flooded his eyes. “… Until now.” 

The Keeper watched him quietly once again - Fenris could feel her eyes on him as he spoke. Her hand rested still on his forearm, her thumb idly running along his skin. “What makes you so sure that he wouldn’t give his own life, if it meant saving another?” The Keeper asked, after a small span of silence. “Was he a selfish man?”

“No!” Fenris protested, looking once again upon her face. “Hawke was anything but selfish! I have fought by his side for years, and I’ve seen first hand just how unbelievably selfless he can be.”

A greying brow lifted then, deep brown eyes widening. “So, Kirkwall’s Champion is dead?” She asked. Fenris responded in only a single nod, his throat tightening almost painfully as he heard the words spoken aloud by another living person. “Ir abelas, da’len,” The woman said sombrely, her hand tightening on his arm. “People far and wide know of the deeds Hawke has done, and the battles you have fought. He was well respected, and will never be forgotten.” 

The hand on his arm, and the kind words spoken to him were more a comfort than the woman could know. Fenris could not remember what it was to grieve, what it felt like to console. He’d done his best when Hawke’s mother had died, tried to fill the silence as his lover had mourned her passing, but even his best had been a poor attempt. But the Keeper’s words did dull the ache in his heart, even if only for a moment. 

“But,” The Keeper continued. “Why is it that you do not believe that perhaps Hawke felt the sacrifice was necessary, that it was the right thing for him to do?”

“Because he _promised me_!” Fenris all but spat, pulling his arm from the Keeper’s grasp then. “Hawke wouldn’t do anything so reckless without me beside him! He promised me he would return! He would not leave me… Not like this.” Despair was plain in Fernis’ eyes, his voice wavering ever so slightly with the pain he felt. 

She made a soft noise of pity, and averted her gaze for a moment out of respect. As he did, Fenris turned his own eyes upwards, to the darkening sky above, blinking away the unshed tears as he silently asked anyone out there who was listening why they had taken Hawke. Why had they left him alone again. Why they took such pleasure in harassing him and making his already miserable life that much fucking worse at every turn. But the woman who sat beside him cared not that he had snapped at her so unjustified. No, she simply say alongside him and offered what little comfort her presence could give, and pretended that she did not see the tears welling in his eyes. 

“Maybe,” She began quietly, her voice almost blown away by a breeze, almost lost in the rustle of leaves. “Maybe The Gods have bigger plans for Hawke… And for you, as well?” As she spoke, he met her eyes, feeling anger and sorrow growing within him. There was no reason, no plan good enough to justify the death of a person so pure of heart, as Hawke had been. “I know that my words are not much comfort in these times, and that they give no real answers, but perhaps there is a grater cause you both must serve? Maybe there is a reason -“

“The reason,” Fenris sneered, though unintentionally so, as he swiftly rose to his feet and stalked towards the edge of the cliff. “Is that the gods - Elvhen and Andrastian alike - have turned their backs on me! I have known little else but pain and suffering in my life, felt more hands on me to cause harm than not. I have seen naught but death and destruction for as long as I can possibly remember. And each time I have been given something good, it is eventually snatched from my grasp.” Fenris paced the grass between where he’d sat, and the edge of the cliff, slender hands gesturing sharply along with his words. 

He’d not intended to lose it like this, but now that he’d started, Fenris was unsure he could stop. “I was a slave in the Imperium, these marks on my skin were not put there by choice. I was forced into the ritual, endured pain so horrific that it wiped all memory of my past from my mind. I served a cruel Magister, did his every command, acted as his bodyguard, though I wanted nothing more than to kill him with my own hands. I did not even know what it was to have a friend until I met Hawke. I did not even know what love was.”

A cold, humourless huff of laughter left Fenris then, as he shook his head. Strands of silvery hair fell into his eyes, hiding the way that they once more welled with tears. “But  _The Gods_ gave Hawke to me. He took me in, made me feel welcome. He helped me when no one else could - when no one else _would_. Hawke taught me what it was to have a friend, taught me how to read and write. He taught me how to love. And I did, I loved him. We never said as much, but we knew how the other felt. The words were not necessary. _The Gods_ gave me this wonderful human as a reward for my hardships… _And then they took him away._ They do not have a greater plan, Keeper, I can assure you that. No, I am simply here for their amusement, and nothing more.”

The lyrium branded into his skin began to thrum with the force of his anger, his hands shaking almost uncontrollably at his sides. And there was almost nothing that Fenris could do to stop it. He could feel the way the lyrium glowed, feel it’s familiar itching burn, the power within him wanting to escape. But The Keeper seemed content to let him unleash his verbal assault upon her, and simply watched him pace with attentive eyes.

Feet carried Fenris along the same path - between his pervious seat and the cliff’s edge. His eyes gazed out at the horizon, but saw nothing. Nothing but red. Hawke’s red. Hawke’s blood staining the precious Inquisitor’s hands.

“Hawke deserved better,” Fenris continued. “He deserved better than to be left in the Fade to die. He died _alone_ , Hahren! I should have been there! I should have been fighting beside him! If I had been there,  I could have saved him! We could have made it out together, or died at each other’s side!” His words were almost spoken a snarl now, nearly shouted in the silence of the little clearing. 

The others in their group may have been a ways off, but it was not so far that his voice would not carry. And something in the back of his mind - a small, rational voice - told him that they likely would not take too kindly to a stranger screaming at their leader. But the majority of him did not care. It didn’t matter, anyway. Nothing did. Not even the tears that filled his eyes and spilled down his high cheekbones. 

All he knew was that Hawke was gone. Dead. Never coming home. 

“Lavellan is to blame for this,” He spat. “She had a choice! The Grey Warden - who was likely soon going to his own death once his calling came, or Hawke - who should have had too many years left to count. But she chose wrong! And she took him from me.”

The Keeper, still watching as he paced the cliff, remained silent. There was no judgement in her bottomless eyes, no sense of pity. Just a quiet understanding for his anger, for his rage and perhaps unnecessarily harsh words. There was an air wisdom to her, a knowledge to the ways people went about dealing with things such as this. It was a wisdom that kept her voice even and without accusation. 

“So, you seek vengeance against the Inquisitor?” She asked, perhaps too calmly. “Tell me, is that wise?”

“I do not care if it wise! It is what Lavellan deserves!” Fenris shouted, rounding on the woman. “Lavellan is the reason that Hawke is dead! She must pay for what she has taken from me.”

“And how do you plan to ‘make her pay’? With that blade of yours?” The Keeper asked, nodding towards where Fenris had laid his broadsword - a blade that had been a gift from Hawke some years ago now. He carried it with him on every mission, and it had never once let him down. “I doubt very much that it would do you much good, and it’s highly unlikely that you’d get close enough to Lavellan to use it. You may be a fierce warrior, but against the entire Inquisition, you are but one lone elf, and there is no way you could cut them all down. And to get to Lavellan, that is likely what you will have to do.”

She was to calm, and far too reasonable, and it was driving Fenris further and further into rage. She wasn’t fighting him, wasn’t trying to talk him out of it. There wasn’t even a raised voice to tell him _no_. The Keeper simply spoke the truth of the matter, pointed out things that the reasonable part of Fenris had been trying to tell him for days. She was being rational. And Fenris was well beyond reason by now. 

“I will cut through them all, one by one, if I have to… If it means ripping Lavellan’s heart from her chest and crushing it in my fist, like she has done to me.” He growled, his voice low and threatening, though the threat was not directed at the woman before him. “It would not be the first time I’ve stormed a keep all on my own.”

With a slow sigh, the elder rose to her feet and brushed the loose grass and dirt from her skirts, bare feet padding quietly in the grass as she walked to where he stood. “You know that vengeance will not bring Hawke back, da’len.” She said. When Fenris made no attempt at reply, The Keeper gave another sigh and shook her head. “I am not here to tell you what to do, or what not to do. All I can do is offer a suggestion, and pray that you take it to heart.” Fenris looked over his shoulder then, bright eyes narrowed in a glare. “Let the dead rest in peace. Preserve the memory of your lost love, tell anyone who will listen his story and make certain that his memory lives on. But do not let his loss give cause to spill more innocent blood. Too much of that has happened already.” 

As she spoke, The Keeper placed a hand on his shoulder, just as comforting and as gentle as her touch had been before. The warmth was still there, and it seeped into his body through the cloak over his shoulders. “Take this rage and anger and channel it into a greater cause. Put this energy towards something worthwhile. Continue to help people… As you have done for my clan. Do it in Hawke’s name. Hawke was a good man, and he would not want to see another come to harm on his behalf. I may not have known him as you did, but I can assure you this, Da’len.”

Fenris turned his face from her, and once more glared out towards Skyhold. The old woman knew nothing of what Hawke would have wanted; she was indeed correct in saying as much. And Fenris believed deep within his heart - or, what was left of it - that Hawke would have done the same, had their fates been switched. Hawke would have torn the world apart, would have found a way to rip down the veil between their world and the fade if he had to, to avenge him. So Fenris would do no less than that for the man who he had loved. 

In the silence that hung between them, The Keeper murmured a quiet condolence in elvhen that he did not understand, before removing her hand from his shoulder and walking away. He could hear her footfalls growing further and further from him, rustling the fallen leaves and grass. “Think on all that I have said, child.” 

The final words she’d spoken drifted by on the breeze. The same breeze that pushed white-blond hair from steely green eyes. The same breeze the rustled his cloak about his legs, and made the ends of a vibrant, unique red sash about his narrow waist flap. A narrowed gaze watched the sun lower itself brow the horizon, watched the sky turn from pink and orange, to deep purple and midnight blue. Armoured gloved hands reached up to smooth the sash back down, metal claws delicately twisting the fabric around them in a comforting way. As he closed his eyes, a wavering sigh escaped him, his tears spilling freely down his face. 

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Fenris murmured to himself, lifting his head towards the final rays of the suns light. They were words he’d growled at Hawke out of anger many years ago, back when he hadn’t known that what he’d felt was love. Back when he’d been too afraid to truly believe that he was wanted. That he was loved in return. “You may very well end up being the death of me, Hawke. But I will walk gladly into it, if it once again puts me at your side.”


	2. The Uninvited

_“Nothing appeals to me_

_No on feel like me_

_I’m too busy being calm to disappear._

_I’m in no shape to be alone,_

_Contrary to the shit that you might hear.”_

 

The sun had not yet risen as Fenris made his way across the remaining miles that separated him from Skyhold. The sky had barely grown from black to deep blue when he’d snuck away from the still sleeping travellers. He did not want them to be caught up in what it was he needed to do, did not wish them to be persecuted for his actions. 

Fenris was more than aware that what he was planning was a suicide mission of his very own. What the Keeper had told him the night before was all very true; in order to get to Lavellan, he was likely going to have to take on the entirety of the Inquisitions forces. And from what he had heard, and seen throughout his travels, they were all well trained. Then again, it was said that an ex-Templar was their Knight Commander. 

He remembered Cullen Rutherford well, knew enough about him to know that the soldiers he was likely to face would be Templar trained. And as fearsome a fighter as Fenris was in his own right, there was no way he would be able to take on an entire army of wanna-be Templars all on his own. But sadly, there was no one else left to help him. He was completely alone in this. 

Throughout the night, Fenris had studied the high stone walls of the fortress, looking at a distance for some flaw, some place where those walls could easily be breached. As much as he’d never been one for sneak attacks, it seemed to be his best option. If he could sneak his way inside, perhaps he could take the Inquisitor unawares, ambush her in some quiet area. Maybe even use the merger coin in his pocket to persuade a fledgling guard to lure her up onto the ramparts. But so far as he could tell, not only were the walls too high and too smoothly built to scale, there was a constant patrol around them. He’d only been there several hours, but he could see a steady flow of ant-like people walking along the tops of the walls surrounding the castle inside, and three more stationed in the watch towers. 

Of course there was a persistent presence of guards and look-outs. They were, after all, watching for Corypheus and his dragon, waiting for his next attack. No one entered or left Skyhold without someone knowing. 

_The only way in is through the front door_ , thought Fenris, as he strapped his sheathed great sword across his back. _Though it is as The Keeper said, to storm Skyhold on my own will get me no further than the gates. Perhaps if I get lost among the rabble filtering inside, I can slip in unnoticed?_

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but he had no time to concoct a more apt one. This mission had to be carried out soon. Today. Before The Keeper and her clan arrived. And if he had a few hours head start, he could reach the fortress and the Inquisitor before they got too close. 

So with his armour donned, and blade readied, Fenris had left the camp without so much as a good-bye, slipping away silently, like a shadow fleeing the light of day. 

The valley between the cliffside camp and the fortress was already filled with refugees even in the early pre-dawn hours. So many that it was almost too easy to lose himself among the masses. Most of them were women and children seeking shelter after the Mage-Templar war wiped out their homes, and killed their husbands. Many more were armed men looking to aid the cause. Humans, elves and dwarves alike walked the same path with tired eyes and sore feet, heading towards what they prayed would be a new hope. 

“The Inquisitor will know what to do,” Fenris heard from more than one mouth as he walked silently through the throngs of people. “Surely she has a plan.”

Beneath the hood of his cloak, Fenris’ lip pulled up in a sneer. _Yes, she will know what to do indeed,_ he thought bitterly. _She will take from you the only thing in this world that was yours, and make all of Thedas believe that was a sacrifice made willingly. And you naive sheep will believe her, because she is always in the right._

Each step brought him closer to his goal, each path led him towards the vengeance he’d been seeking. People around him all moved towards the same destination, though their purpose entirely different. They longed to help, while Fenris… He sought only to destroy. To drive his blade - the blade gifted to him by his slain lover - through the heart of Inquisitor Lavellan. But first, slit the throat of her beloved - the Knight Commander. 

The rumours regarding the relationship between the Templar and the Mage was as widespread a tale as the one of Andraste ascending to the Maker’s side. It was a tale that was on the lips of every wide-eyed apostate girl on the road these days. How the Inquisitor had been able to sway the mind of the Templar, how they had fallen in love amidst all the bloodshed and war around them. How they should be upheld as a symbol of how the world should be. 

And the stories had only put darker thoughts in Fenris’ mind. Lavellan had taken his world from him, murdered him with no just cause. She’d caused him this grief, this hurt, this unending torment. And before he ended Lavellan’s life, he needed to watch the horror flood her eyes, needed to hear the grief stricken scream leave her as Fenris drenched her in the blood of her lover. He had to make her feel the pain he did, had to make her understand the depths of madness that such pain had driven him. 

No, Hawke’s death had not been a violent one, not an act done out of pure spite. That much was known by some small part of his mind. But still, a much larger, much louder part of him screamed that he needed to be as ruthless and cold as possible. Because what Lavellan had done was as cold an act as any other. To leave someone in the fade… To let them be ripped apart by demons… It was cruel. 

There had been a time, many years ago now, when he and Cullen Rutherford had stood on the same side. Fenris could recall helping the young Templar, rescuing him from abominations, keeping quite the way escaped circle mages had tainted some of the Templar Order with demons through blood magic. He remembered siding with Rutherford over Hawke too; how he had tried to sway his lover into stripping the recruit of his ranks, in the off chance he was possessed. Fenris had not trusted Hawke then, not the way he’d grown to over the years. And despite their Dalish companion being absolutely positive that the recruit had not been possessed, neither Fenris nor Cullen had been so sure. 

Had things gone differently, Fenris thought that he and Cullen could have been friends. They could have worked together, perhaps even fought side by side to help bring an end the madness that spread across Thedas. But the Templar had supported Lavellan in her decision to leave Hawke in the fade, even after all Hawke had done for him. And in his own mind, that alone justified Cullen’s death too. 

So it would be only then, with the blood of Rutherford smeared across her face, would her end her. Only then, would he reach into the Mage's chest and crush her heart in his hand, as she had done to him.

It was a morbid plan, he knew. But with each of the remaining miles ticking away step by tiring step, his resolve grew stronger and stronger.

The gates of the fortress loomed over him as the sun reached it’s highest point in the sky. Guards on either side took the names and status of every person entering. Fenris took patiently in the long line of refugees, cloak still pulled over his face to shield the glow of the lyrium in his skin. “Name,” He heard a guard ask a young elven women, several people ahead of him. 

“Juniper,” She said, her tiny voice wavering. 

“Business?” 

“I… I need shelter. My home was taken by apostates, and I’ve nowhere else to go!” Pleaded the girl. Fenris looked up, saw the way her whole body shook with fear. Her dress was torn and disheveled, her dark hair falling messily from its pony tail. No shoes adorned her feet, which were dirty and bloody. Her face and neck bore no vallaslin markings, and her bright blue eyes were wet with tears as she gazed up at the guard. A city elf, he assumed. “I can cook, I can clean! I can help make and mend clothing, or tend to children! Please, ser, I’ve no other option!”

The two guards exchanged looks through their helms and nodded. “Alright, you may enter. Go and find Mother Giselle, she will help you.”

“Thank you! Oh, thank you. Maker bless you and the Inquisition for all your good work!” She sobbed, joyful tears spilling down her pretty face.  

Fenris glowered below his hood. She was the hundredth person to say such a thing in the last hour. Were these people truly so blind? Did they not know what ruthless, heartless people were spearheading this operation? It sickened him each time he heard it. 

As the guards made their way through each and every one of the refugees, pointing them in a direction where they would be of most use, Fenris’ mind still turned. If he was to tell them that he wished to fight for the Inquisition, as many men before him did, he was to be sent to Seeker Penterghast. The Seeker knew him, had to be aware by now that Fenris had once traveled with Hawke. The stories alone that Varric had spun through Kirkwall had depicted him as a fearsome warrior, glowing blue with lyrium burned in his flesh in the heat of battle. He’d even read one of Varric’s books - a highly embellished account of a mission they’d undergone some years ago now at Hawke’s side. So to think he could slip past Cassandra was a thought he didn’t even begin to entertain. 

If he was to tell the guard that he was in need of shelter, he’d be sent to Mother Giselle - a Chantry figurehead who also, likely knew his name and face from story alone. He carried no pack, no cart laden with goods he could claim to be selling or delivering to merchants… 

“Name?” Said a gruff voice, pulling Fenris from his thoughts. 

“It is unimportant,” He replied, his deep voice as calm and even as any other. 

From below his hood, he watched the way the guard rose a brow, regarding him with suspicion. “Alright,” He said. “What business do you have within Skyhold?” 

“I possess information,” Fenris said. 

The guard huffed, and rolled his eyes. “You and every other person milling about the hold,” He grumbled, making a note or two on his page. “Alright than, stranger. The Inquisitor holds an open court every third day when she’s at the hold; you can present your so-called information there. If it’s of any use, she’ll likely call you into the war room to further discuss matters.” The guard’s eyes glanced him up and down, paying particular attention to the massive blade strapped to his back. “In the mean time, if you wish to join -“

“I do not wish to aid you,” Fenris interjected, his voice a sneer. It was perhaps more aggressive than he needed to be, but his mind was elsewhere. 

“Suit yourself,” The Guard said, flipping back a few pages on his board. “You are in luck, however. The Inquisitor’s public hearing is today. It should be getting underway shortly. So if you would just make your way up the stairs and to the line in front of the hold’s doors, you should be seen today.”

The words had barely left the man’s mouth before Fenris pushed passed him, marching purposefully towards the flight of stairs that brought him to the main doors of Skyhold. He could feel the eyes of the people in the courtyard on him, could hear the murmurs of low voices. 

“How does a person that size wield a blade so large?”

“Where’s he off to in such a hurry?”

“Is it just me, or did was there just a change in the air here?”

Stupid questions asked by people who knew not a damn thing about him. They didn’t know his rage, they didn’t know his pain. But those off hand remarks meant nothing to him now, as his feet carried him up the final flight of stairs. 

Several dozen people already crowded around the massive wooden doors of Skyhold’s main chambers. Above them hung the Inquisition’s official banner, flapping in the gentle breeze. Fenris’ eyes caught sight of a young woman standing before the doors, her blue and yellow silk dress gleaming in the sunlight. 

“If you would all just form an orderly line,” Her Antivan accented voice called, an air of importance and authority in her tone. “We will begin the day’s hearings. Inquisitor Lavellan does not have much time, so I suggest that if your grievance is a civil matter, you take it elsewhere.”

Voices from the crowd took up then in unison, everyone calling to be heard at once, though not one was clearer than another. Everyone called out, claiming to have the most important matter of all, that their problems were only solvable by the Inquisitor herself. It was chaos. And for Fenris, chaos was good. 

The commotion drew the attention of the guards who stood at either side of the door, who stepped in to help the Antivian woman bring the crowd back under control. And with everyone else at the doorstep of the hold distracted by the noise, Fenris slipped through the bodies. The doors were in sight, his goal attainable. And with surprising ease, Fenris slipped through them, and into the entryway beyond.

He could see her already, perched atop her throne, with one leg idly crossed over the other. Inquisitor Elyessia Lavellan. And he had to admit - the elven woman was much lovelier than he’d expected her to be. Not at all the battle hardened mage he’d dreamed up in his mind. No, in fact she was quite young, beautiful even. Blonde hair spilled over her slender shoulders in gentle flowing waves, and violet eyes gazed up at her advisors. High cheekbones marked with Dalish vallaslin, tattoos that followed the shape of her face in a complimentary way. She wore an easy smile, a smile that Fenris wanted to smack off her face more than anything. 

At her right side stood the Knight Commander, in all his polished armoured glory. At her left stood Seeker Cassandra Penterghast, as fearsome at a distance as she ever was up close. Lurking in the shadows behind the throne was the woman that Varric had only ever referred to as The Nightingale, her eyes scanning the crowd before the dais with more suspicion than he’d ever seen. 

But still, Fenris pressed on, moving through the nobles the milled about at the back of the hall. It wasn’t until he passed through the archway leading into the main hall, that a third guard who waited beyond took notice of him.

“Hey!” Her voice called. “You can’t go in there!” 

A gloved hand reached out to catch hold of Fenris’ arm, but he was quicker. Armoured claws wrapped around her wrist, clenching it tight enough so the bones splintered in his grasp. The guardswoman let out a sharp cry of pain and went to draw her blade with her left hand, frightened eyes peering below Fenris’ hood. 

The lyrium carved into his skin had already begun to glow, its eerie blue tinge illuminating his face in a haunting, ghostly light beneath the dark hood. “Just watch me.” He snarled, before unsheathing her short sword for her, and jamming it down through the top her boot, and into the stone floor below with alarming strength. 

But her cry had alerted others inside, and several more Inquisition soldiers moved through the noblemen and women in the hall, their hands already reaching for their weapons. _Well, I was aware that I would have to fight my way to Lavellan_. Fenris thought as he turned to face the men and women who moved towards him. He raised his head then, the hood of his cloak falling away from his face, and reached up over his head to draw his blade, just as the others drew theirs. 

“Oi! Elf! Throw down your blade and no one gets hurt!” One of the men called, his own blade already in hand. 

“You cannot hope to fight me and win,” Fenris growled, green eyes narrowing dangerously at the line of guards that moved slowly closer to him. “Stand aside and bring Lavellan to me.”

“The Inquisitor does not deal with terrorists. Lay down your arms, _now_.” 

Fenris laughed, a deep and cold laugh that bespoke of the hatred in his heart. “It is not I who terrorizes,” He replied with a smirk, taking a step towards the guards. “It is not I who sacrifice innocent lives to demons, to save my own skin. It is not I who forces good and nobel men to break their promises.” Each step forward Fenris made, the men around him took a step back. The markings in his skin were fully ablaze now, the lyrium in his blood making his eyes glow. “No, my friend, that is your dear Inquisitor.” 

One guard lunged forward, hoping to catch him unawares, but Fenris was on him. He sidestepped the attack, and cracked the guards helmet with the pommel of his blade. Dazed, the guard lashed out at him, leaving himself open for Fenris to slash. The blade caught the man in the gut, a spray of blood coating the steel as he fell. 

Two more made an attempt then, one looking to distract, the other moving to attack. They had not been prepared for how quick the elf moved, and both fell in a heap at his feet. The cloak he’d worn was quickly discarded and tossed aside, leaving his slender, tattooed arms bared for all to see, the sick blue glow of the markings sending a look of fear through the remaining guards eyes. 

But like the protectors they were, the remaining men circled him, and all fell in at once. They fought valiantly, though they were unprepared, unskilled. Fenris, however, was made to be nothing short of a killing machine. And he tore through the guards with more ease than even he thought possible. 

_Rage is a powerful thing_ , a calmer part of him said. A part of him with which he agreed.  

The commotion had risen a call to arms, and from behind him came more Soldiers, clad in their plate and chainmail, all embossed with the Inquisitions sigil. More filtered in from a door behind the Inquisitors throne. Not all of them bore blades. Some carried bows, others staves. 

_Mages,_ Fenris thought, his upper lip pulling up in a sneer. _Of course she has them on her side._  

As if trained for this scenario, one group of soldiers broke from the rest, forming a line before the Inquisitor. The rest circled Fenris, caging him in like an animal. 

But he refused to back down. Hefting his blade in both hands and settling into a battle stance, his eyes narrowed. “Inquisitor Lavellan!” Fenris called. “Come and face me on your own! You cannot hope to hide behind loyal men and women forever! Soon there will be no one left to take the fall for you!” 

Like a well oiled machine, the solders moved as one - archers knocking and drawing arrows, training them on him, Mages simultaneously reaching towards the fade to weave spells. Swordsmen drew their weapons and hefted their shields. “Stand down, elf.” Said a familiar voice. From behind the circle of soldiers, Knight Commander Cullen eyed him, his own blade in hand, prepared to fight in defence of his lover. “Stand down and no one else will be harmed.”

He was surrounded. No way out, no way back. It was die now, bloody and beaten, or see his task through to the end. And the desire to see Lavellan dead burned too bright in his heart to see surrender or failure as another option. 

“I will not _Stand Down_ ,” Fenris sneered in reply. “I’ve come for one thing, and one thing only. And I will not leave until retribution for the death of Garrett Hawke is paid in full.”

Around him in the tense silence that lingered before battle, Fenris could hear the creak of bowstrings, feel the static charge of magic in the air. Fingers flexed and closed around the handle of his great sword, body taught and prepared for the next attack. He was more than out numbered, stood no chance against a small battalion of soldiers - ranged and melee alike. But still, he would not give the Knight Commander the satisfaction of dropping his blade. 

Instead, he darted forward, lunging at the soldier who stood between him and Cullen, and struck the first blow of battle. 


End file.
